


Parley

by Wojelah



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Community: sg_flyboys, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-18
Updated: 2007-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:19:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wojelah/pseuds/Wojelah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: "Future after they've won (or lost) the big one (or an AU--just, *makes an all encompassing hand gesture* outside of our usual setting), mortal peril, with cameo by team. (The last one is given a sort of loose interpretation.)"  Cam, John, and pirates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pentapus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus/gifts).



> Thank heaven for [](http://omglawdork.livejournal.com/profile)[**omglawdork**](http://omglawdork.livejournal.com/) , [](http://raisintorte.livejournal.com/profile)[**raisintorte**](http://raisintorte.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://smittywing.livejournal.com/profile)[**smittywing**](http://smittywing.livejournal.com/) , extraordinary betas and brainstormers. [](http://pentapus.livejournal.com/profile)[**pentapus**](http://pentapus.livejournal.com/) , I am so, so sorry this is late - I hope it fits the bill!
> 
> * * *

Cam's been driving for _days_ when he finally just quits looking. It's November, it's raining, he's somewhere between Miami and St. Augustine, and he's been hunting for John Sheppard, Col., U.S.A.F. (ret.) for what feels like forever. He puts the car into park outside a bar that should look seedy, except there's music spilling out the door that he can hear even through the car windows, and the folks scurrying in from the rain look pretty pleased to be there. The engine's idling, and it's tempting just to move on - head up to Jacksonville, call in to Colorado, get a flight and make it back to the mountain as soon as possible. The heavens choose that moment to pour down like they're trying to drown him where he sits, so he sighs, grabs the keys, flips up his collar, opens the car door, and sprints for dry land.

Inside the bar, it's muggy and crowded and loud, and he flirts idly with the bartender while she pours him something local and on tap. He snags a stool and bellies up; the beer goes down smooth and dark and yeasty, nice enough after a day battling Winnebagos and Cadillacs driven by little old ladies that put his automatic respect for people who make him think of his grandmother to the absolute test. He grins at the bartender and settles in to drink, closing his eyes and listening to the music - an open mic, apparently, but good, really good, for all that - while he enjoys himself.

Cam's had three more, and nothing much more than a handful of the bar's free popcorn, before he realizes that getting back on the road's going to be an interesting proposition. The bar's emptying out, and the woman on the stage announces it's closing time before launching into something slow and sexy and a little sad, in a voice that sounds like Vala moves. He signals the bartender and downs a glass of water, then fumbles for his keys, which he promptly drops. He's scanning the floor for them, swearing under his breath, when he hears something jingle and finds them dangling in front of his face. "Come on, Mitchell," says a familiar voice, lazy and dry and just a little mocking. His skin prickles with the shock of recognition. "I'll drive you home."

Cam blinks, and the world refocuses into the lines and shadows that make up John Sheppard's face. One eye's got a patch; the other's watching him steadily, and Cam's too fuddled by the booze to look for subtext. "Don't have a place," he manages.

Sheppard rolls his eyes - eye, thinks Cam - and heads for the door. "Shut up, Mitchell."

Cam goes to follow, and the barkeep grabs his wrist. "You a friend of Johnny's?"

He looks at her in disbelief. _Johnny?_ , he thinks. "Used to be," he says.

"Don't fuck with him," she says, and lets him go.

"Trust me," Cam says, threading his way through the empty tables between him and the door, "I wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

The next morning, he wakes up to find himself on an old brown sofa that scratches like hell, a blanket tangled around his feet. The house feels empty and he's willing to trust his instincts, because after eight years on SG-1, he's had a lot of practice waking up in unknown locations. This time, at least, he's still wearing his pants. He shoves himself up and knocks over an empty glass as he swings his feet over the side and onto the floor. His mouth tastes like something crawled in and died, and his head's a little foggy, but it looks like he's escaped major punishment this time around. Cam scrubs at his face and takes the lay of the land.

It's a bungalow, neat and clean and pretty impersonal, furniture-wise - serviceable stuff, the kind that looks a lot like the one room in the frat house where a guy could bring his girlfriend's parents. Somebody's knocked out a wall, and the kitchen-slash-den has a bank of windows facing the ocean. Cam stumbles down the hall and tries a couple doors that reveal, consecutively, a bedroom, an office, and - thankfully - a bathroom. He emerges feeling kind of human, and tries the front door. The view from the porch is amazing - scrubby vegetation in a million shades of green, a sweep of cream-colored sand, and then nothing but blue.

Cam's just sitting there, still in his sweats, just staring, feeling two weeks of nervous tension running along his nerves and playing in his muscles, when he hears the crunch of feet on gravel and then Sheppard rounds the corner of the house, sweaty and blowing pretty hard. Cam's gotta give him credit; he doesn't so much as blink when he sees Cam taking up space on one of his Adirondacks. He just puts his hands behind his head and breathes deep. Cam goes back to looking at the ocean. When Sheppard moves again, it's to strip off the black t-shirt and head for the door. "Come on, Mitchell," he says for the second time in twenty-four hours. "Breakfast."

Cam looks at the ocean, breathes the salt air in, and heads inside.

* * *

"Thirty-foot Pearson," Sheppard says over some of the worst damn scrambled eggs Cam's ever had, and his daddy could burn water if he tried. "High-aspect fractional rig, swept spreaders. Four hundred 'n fifty-plus square feet of sail."

Cam lets the babble pass him by. "You got a _boat_?"

"Sailboat, asshole," Sheppard corrects equably. "She's a racer. Goes so fast you think you're -" and just like that, the conversation shuts down. Cam looks out the window and then Sheppard's on his feet, clearing the plates, like nothing happened. "C'mon," he says, and Cam will be damned to hell if he ever plays poker with that man again. "Wind's good."

"Sheppard," Cam says, "I grew up in _Kansas_. What I don't know about boats can fill a book."

"Good thing she takes a one-man crew." Sheppard grabs a set of keys from a hook near the fridge and heads out the door. "Let's go."

Cam scratches his neck and swears.

"On second thought," Sheppard says, looking like nothing so much as a pirate in another black shirt and that fucking eye patch, "maybe you should change first. Wouldn't want to scare the fish." Cam looks down at his sweats, looks up just in time to keep his duffel bag from smacking him in the face. "Hurry up, Mitchell," Sheppard says. "If we lose the wind, I'm putting you on KP tonight." He grins, and the door clicks shut.

"I hope we lose the fucking wind," Cam mutters, and goes to get dressed.

An hour later, Cam's on a goddamn boat. Correction. A goddamn _sail_ boat.

* * *

He has to hand it to Sheppard. In the two years he's been gone, the bastard's learned to sail like he grew up knowing how. They've been sailing for about an hour, and that's after a half-an-hour or so motoring through the canals. The boat's a beauty - forty years old if she's a day, and Cam figures the only people likely to understand what the name _Cashing In_ really means are hundreds of miles away. Except for him, and he's only here because two years ago, he and Sheppard understood each other alarmingly well, and now, two years later, Cam's the one who needs to know that somebody else gets it. Sitting in surprisingly comfortable silence, the wind chapping his face and the sun just warm enough on his skin, he's willing to admit he's glad he came.

It's about twenty minutes later when the fish detector looks promising enough for Sheppard. Cam gets enlisted to help haul in the sails and drop anchor. Suddenly Boy Scouts is another whole level of useful, because his fingers remember the knots old Scout Master McMurtry drilled into him years back, even if his brain doesn't. Sheppard heads below, comes back with two rods and the two coolers they'd schlepped on board earlier. Cam opens one, rummages around and grabs a beer, tosses another at Sheppard in exchange for a rod. Sheppard flicks on the radio, they bait their hooks, and they wait.

Two hours later, after a battle with a barracuda that requires braining the fish with a spiked two-by-four and leaves Cam's arms and back pleasantly sore, Sheppard dumps his weapon of fishy death back in the cabin and kicks back while Cam ties another hook. "So they're taking you off the gate team," Sheppard says, and Cam damn near slices his finger open on the pocketknife he's using to cut the line.

"How the hell'd you know?" he demands, as his tenuous peace dissolves and the restlessness returns.

"Teyla called."

"Which explains how you knew to find me in that damn bar." God damn it. She'd known where to find him the whole time, and she'd lied to his face.

"Nah," Sheppard drawls, eyes closed and head tipped back. "McKay traced your subcutaneous transmitter."

Cam's furious. "And the chick in the bar that warned me off of you last night? Who was that - Dex? Because that's disturbing in more ways than one."

"Your imagination's an alarming place, Mitchell." Sheppard looks up, but Cam can't read his eyes - eye, and damn it, why does he keep _thinking_ that - through the sunglasses. "Kayla's just a friend. I helped her out when I first came to town, and she got ideas. Although Ronon did call and tell me that if you got to be a pain in the ass, all I had to do was yell."

"Nice."

"Relax, Cam." Sheppard suddenly sounds tired. "They're just a little..."

"Overprotective?"

Sheppard shrugs. "Have it your way."

Cam sets the rod aside carefully, closes up the knife, and sits with a thud, staring at his hands. Another beer materializes in his line of sight and he looks up; Sheppard's drinking Coke, and he's listening. "O'Neill's leaving. They want someone from the program in his place, and I got nominated to play piñata."

"You gonna do it?"

"What the hell choice do I have?"

"Don't fuck around with me, Mitchell. You always have a choice." Cam smiles, but it's bitter. The last time Sheppard sounded that angry, he'd been in Colorado and they'd just given him the prognosis. The eye was a loss. McKay's Ancient thingamabob had healed his collarbone and ribs enough to keep him alive, but speed-healing left them fragile. Too fragile - they'd never stand up to G-forces again.

Landry'd sent Cam in to keep an eye on Sheppard; Midway might've been destroyed, but that didn't mean Landry didn't think Sheppard capable of taking off with the only remaining jumper and just... leaving. Cam probably wouldn't have blamed him. Hell, Cam _didn't_ blame him. He'd gone in, with Carter and Jackson and Teal'c, during the last days of Atlantis. He'd been there, and while Sam and Daniel had spent most of their time helping cherrypick as much as possible from the database, Cam - and Teal'c - had been a little more actively engaged. He'd been there the night Sheppard put two and two together and realized that the only was to save Pegasus was to lose Atlantis.

Cam sighs, stares out over the ocean. "You know I'm going."

"Do I?" Sheppard sits back down, but Cam can practically _hear_ him vibrating.

Come to think of it, something _is_ thudding away - some motorboat, somewhere, Cam figures, and drops his head into his hands. "You're an asshole, you know that?" he mutters.

"Sticks and stones."

Cam barks out a laugh and closes his eyes. "Eight years of raising hell in other galaxies, and this is my -"

"Shut up," Sheppard snaps, and that... isn't what Cam had expected.

"Jesus, Sheppard." Cam drops his hands to the bench and starts to stand.

"Mitchell," Sheppard hisses, and Cam realizes that the motor he heard is pretty damn loud for "just passing by". "Just shut up and play dumb and _don't move till I tell you_. There's a gun under the top step, and another up by the bow, way the hell back under the bag for the jib - the damn sail. Slide the knife down your sock, nice and slow. It's two inches to your left." The motor's getting louder. "There's a couple more in the cabin. And the 'cuda stick's in there."

"Sheppard," Cam says, straightening, "what the fuck is going on?"

Shep looks down, and Cam knows whatever the hell it is, it's bad. His mouth quirks in a completely humor-free grin. "Pirates."

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Cam groans, and then something bumps the boat _hard_ and something whacks the back of his head _harder_ , and everything disappears.

* * *

He wakes up when they drag him down the stairs into the cabin , but he's not dumb enough to show it. The guy they send down there with him reeks, and the nasty smirk on his face suggests that good oral hygiene has not been a part of his daily routine. On deck, someone's shouting in thickly accented English. Sheppard's not talking at all - or at least he isn't until someone throws something through the hatchway to the goon standing at the foot of the stairs that sloshes and stinks of kerosene, and then he's not talking, he's threatening. Cam's heard that voice before, quiet and empty and scary as hell. Cam's got his own version.

He hears something up on deck hit flesh, hard, just about the time his fingers identify the barracuda stick. The guy watching him is still by the stairs, looking up to watch the action, and he doesn't hear Cam's slow shift into a crouch, using his guard as a screen between him and the other guy upstairs, giving Cam a few seconds to think and a badly obstructed view of what's happening up on deck. He can't see much of Sheppard, but Cam does know he's sprawled into a corner of the boat and looking pretty limp. The guy upstairs must think so too, because he shouts down to Cam's guard, ordering him to keep watch. Then the guy upstairs - or at least his legs - move out of sight and the boat dips sharply, which Cam thinks probably means he's jumped ship onto the other boat, and then Cam doesn't have time to think much at all, because then the guy in front of him notices Cam's not on the bunk any more.

This isn't rocket science; these guys are hardly up to par. Cam brains the guard with the blunt end of the barracuda stick before he makes a noise, and shoves him aside catching the gas can as it falls and stowing it way the hell under the galley sink. He scrabbles at the top step on the stairs, which lifts off silently. Cam liberates the damn gun and enough ammo to take on a fucking army. He loads it, checks the safety - when he looks up through the hatch to check on Sheppard, he damn nearly swallows his tongue: Shep's staring right at him. Cam holds up the gun, and Sheppard's grin is practically feral; Cam doesn't disagree.

Somebody shouts, and Cam doesn't stop to think, just tosses the gun to Sheppard and scrambles for the other at the bow. By the time he makes it back to the stairs, Sheppard's crouched low, taking whatever shelter he can from the hull. "Stay the hell back," he growls, and Cam takes the advice as a shot whines past the hatch. Sheppard's clip is empty - Cam tosses him a couple more from under the step and manages a few shots of his own while Sheppard reloads.

The pirates, and Cam can't really believe that after other galaxies and space aliens and all kinds of weird shit, he goes to Florida and finds _pirates_ , are alongside, in a disreputable wreck of a cabin cruiser that barely looks seaworthy. There's only three of them - four, he supposes, counting the guy knocked out down in Sheppard's cabin. At some point they'd tied a line from their boat to Sheppard's, but it's pretty well played-out - the two boats are probably about forty feet apart.

Sheppard's next shot is followed by a splash. "One," he says, and damn if that's not a challenge. Cam eels himself over the edge of the top step and takes aim - no one's seen him yet, and he takes advantage of their distraction; his shot takes a second guy dead in the chest. The third heads for the wheel; the motor starts to churn and the line tying them together pulls taut. The anchor chain on the _Cashing In_ starts to protest. Cam grabs for the knife at his ankle with his free hand, thinking to cut the line, but Sheppard just shakes his head no. Cam watches him get a bead, feels the seconds stretch out as Sheppard waits, and then the guy shows his face, the shot cracks out, and it's over.

Sheppard's shoulders sag, and Cam heaves a breath, and then there's a noise behind them. Cam whirls, and shoots first rather than asking questions. The sonofabitch from the bunk, standing at the top of the stairs, drops like a ton of bricks. Sheppard catches the barracuda stick as it falls from the guy's hand, just before it goes over the side. They look at each other, and then Sheppard drags the guy onto the seat and Cam goes below to clean up.

He's opening closets, looking for a damn towel, when he finally stops and takes a look around and realizes that everything missing from the bungalow - all the little things that make something feel like home - are scattered around the cabin. The blankets on the bunk are Athosian, he's sure. The knife in his hand looks Satedan; the design on the casing looks a lot like those Ronon _still_ keeps pulling out of his hair at awkward moments. There's books on higher mathemetics stuffed into various bins, and McKay's cramped handwriting scrawls over a pile of random looseleaf that falls to the floor when he opens another cabinet. Sheppard calls his name; Cam shoves the papers back in and secures the latch. He's got his foot on the step when he looks up and notices there's writing on the wall by the hatch. Just pairs of initials, but Cam's pretty sure he knows who they stand for. Cam's got his own list of the lost.

He sticks his head out of the hatch to find Sheppard's towed the other boat in and dumped the last body on board. The wind's kicking up and there's clouds on the horizon. "Pass the damn gas can," Sheppard says, and Cam's happy to oblige. Sheppard douses the boat and the bodies and cuts the line, and they set about raising anchor and hoisting the main. The sail billows and the boat jumps, and Sheppard unearths a flare gun from the storage beneath the seats. Cam's looking at the cruiser, but he can see, out of the corner of his eye, Sheppard lift an eyebrow in a question. Cam nods, short and sharp, and the gun fires. There's a spark of flame. Cam watches it run along the lines and take hold, then turns away.

"Pirates," he mutters.

"Drug runners," Sheppard says, although Cam hadn't really asked. "Small fry. A little out of their territory," he adds with a shrug. "Last time it happened, about a year and a half ago, Kayla lost her dad."

Cam cocks his head, thinks about timelines and timing, and settles for saying nothing. He thinks about the boat, burning, and about Colorado, and by the time they make it back to the dock, he's wound so damn tight he's humming. Sheppard's silent the whole way home.

* * *

They get back to the bungalow and Cam calls the shower. The water's hot and it feels damn good; it's November, after all, and they might be in Florida, but the wind had picked up a bite as the day got old. Not to mention his head feels like it's been kicked by a mule.

Two years ago, it had started out as a fistfight. They'd thrown Cam in with Sheppard because they knew Sheppard was spoiling for a fight and, as Carter observed when the order first came down, because Landry wasn't stupid. They'd just taken _everything_ away from Sheppard, and the whole damn mountain knew it. Cam, Carter had pointed out, might be the only person on base who actually understood what that was like. Cam himself was less sure. He'd fought for his recovery every fucking step, but at least he'd had the possibility. Nothing was going to fix the microscopic flaws in Sheppard's bone structure. Nothing was going to repair the Atlantis gate. If their positions had been reversed, Cam had thought, Sheppard would be the last person in _any_ galaxy Cam would want to see. "At least we were there when it happened," Carter had said, and Cam had flung up his hands and headed for Sheppard's temporary quarters.

Two years later, Cam's a little hazy on the less important details, like who said what, but he remembers they argued, and they both knew it wasn't so much an argument as a general fury at the overwhelming unfairness of life, and that the only available target was the other person in the room. He doesn't remember who swung first, but he does remember it was Sheppard pinned him down, and that he'd never realized what the word rictus _meant_ until he'd gotten a good look at Sheppard's face at that moment. Sheppard had just stared at him, and Cam had just... let down his guard. All the frustration and fear of the last few weeks, all the grief, even if Atlantis wasn't his in the same way it was Sheppard's, all of it out in the open. After that, the details are a little hazy, but Cam's a guy, and there are some key highlights that are crystal clear. He's never forgotten how utterly wrung out he felt the day after, or his complete lack of surprise when the news at the mess the next morning was that Sheppard was already gone.

* * *

It's dark when he gets out of the bathroom. Sheppard's bedroom door is closed. Thunder's rumbling off to the north; Cam ambles out to the porch and leans against the railing, leaving the door open behind him. He hears the snick of a door opening inside the house, way off down the hall, and isn't surprised when, shortly after, a long tall body bumps against his and settles in.

"So, about that job." Sheppard says, quietly.

"Fuck off." Cam's not really angry; his heart's not in it. Apparently Sheppard didn't get that memo, because suddenly Cam's up against the wall of the house and Sheppard's hand is an almost uncomfortable pressure on his sternum.

"You don't take that job, you're a damn coward." Sheppard's voice almost gets lost in the ocean and the thunder, it's so low.

"What the hell do you know about it? It could've been yours, except you _walked_ , Sheppard. You just moseyed on out and disappeared to go fight half-assed pirates off the Florida coast." Cam gets his hands up and shoves.

"Mitchell, if you think any single person under that damn mountain would've shoved me into blues and sent me out to chat with the politicos, you're dumber than I thought." Sheppard sounds disgusted.

Two years ago, Cam realizes, that remark would've had him swinging. Maybe it had. Now, today, with the smell of blood and soot still clinging faintly to his skin, Cam surprises himself by laughing, and sags back against the wall. "Would've been interesting, anyhow."

"That's one word for it," Sheppard drawls, and the next thing Cam knows, there's a hand on the back of his neck and a forehead against his. "Listen, you stupid fuck," he says, "why the hell do you think we'd all crawl through hell and back for O'Neill?" Cam draws breath, but Sheppard just talks over him. "Because he's between them and us. Fighting the dirty fight. And some days, he's all the protection we've got. Now it's your turn to step up. It's not a bad choice."

Cam's still processing that when a mouth closes over his, and then Sheppard's tongue's there, hot and knowing and not at all gentle. The restlessness that's been eating at Cam all day leaps and fires, his whole damn skin tingles and he's not careful as he shoves Sheppard's shirt over his head, pressing hard into hot muscle, feeling Sheppard's hands moving just as desperately over his own body. It's a blur, for a while: cloth and hair and muscle and bone and teeth and cool air and skin, sweet and hot. Their sweats are somewhere underneath them. ("I am not picking out splinters out of your ass in the morning," somebody says.) Sheppard's still wearing that damn eyepatch. ("Kinky," somebody says; "Go to hell," someone answers.) Cam's not sure if it's the breeze or Sheppard's hand tracing his spine that kicks up gooseflesh and drives Cam's hips down, making them both gasp. Cam can't move, knows as soon as he does he's going to fly into pieces - he's holding his breath so hard it _hurts_ , pushing himself up, away from the heat and scrape of Sheppard's chest against his, feeling something he can't even name fracturing, splintering, coming apart at the seams. Then a hot, heavy palm runs along the line of Cam's shoulder, sweeps downs the plane of his back, comes to rest on the point of his hip and Cam shatters on a gasp that sounds like a sob, thrusting down until Sheppard arches beneath him in a flash of heat and Cam's world goes white.

* * *

They make it inside, somehow, and the storm breaks not long after. Cam falls asleep to the sound of the rain and wakes when it stops. The restlessness is gone. He's awake, and empty, the same kind of empty he'd been two years ago, and his head hurts. His duffle's behind the sofa; after some thinking, he finds the car keys in the freezer and vows he'll get Sheppard back for that one day. He opens the front door and pretends he doesn't notice the light reflecting in Sheppard's open eyes - eye, he thinks, and feels his grandmother slap him up the inside of his head. The door closes behind him, and the gravel crunches under his feet; the damn Volvo's no more fun than it was before, but at least Sheppard brought it back from the bar. By the time the sky turns to grey, Cam's thirty minutes outside of Jacksonville, heading home.


End file.
